


Exhale [Zayn Malik AU]

by itsniallertime



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Artist Zayn, Bad Boy Zayn, F/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 05:39:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsniallertime/pseuds/itsniallertime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Madeline Phillips had a rough life; her grandfather died when she was only eight because of lung cancer, and her mother was constantly in and out of jail because of drug abuse. It seemed like Maddie would never get the happy life that she wanted. But when she meets her new neighbor, a rough, life-hating boy involved in a gang, she learns that sometimes, to get what you want, you need to just take a step back and exhale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exhale [Zayn Malik AU]

I put my head down on my desk, thinking about how much I want to die right now. Calculus is my worst subject, and I feel like throwing my book across the room.

"Maddie, come over here!" Someone's voice makes my head snap up, and I turn to see the "jocks" and "popular" kids beckoning me to them.

"Okay," I say uneasily, standing up and pulling down the sleeves of my sweater to cover my wrists.

"So, Madeline," Matthew begins, "what's your favorite slurpee flavor?"

"Uh, I--"

"Let's hope it's grape." He points behind him, and I'm confused at first, until I feel something ice cold and wet splash onto my face --a slurpee, to be exact.

Cue the riotous laughter.

"Oh my god, I can't believe she fell for that!" Matt's right-hand man, James, honks.

"Wow, Maddie, I love your new makeover," Marissa, the school's blonde beauty queen, chirps. "It's, like, totally your style."

Giggle and wheezes fill my ears, but all I can think about is how much I want to cry.

Without even giving it a second thought, I calmly walk out of my math class (which I absolutely hate anyways) and to the girls' bathroom. Luckily, it's only two doors down, so I make it there before I completely break out in tears. Once inside, I walk over to the mirror and look at my reflection: purple chunks of ice cover my whole upper body; my eyes are slick with unshed tears.

I cry and cry and cry until I can't cry anymore, the weight of everything in my life crashing down on me. This has happened to me so many times, I should be used to it by now. But of course, life doesn't work that way. I go into the biggest stall and grab some toilet paper to wipe my eyes. I splash water onto my face and clothes, trying to get rid of the soaking, purple stains seeping into my skin.

Five minutes of rubbing paper towels on my shirt, and my actions are proved futile. I angrily throw the useless paper towels into the trash can and storm out of the bathroom and to the PE locker room, where my track clothes are.

I unlock my locker and pull out my clothes; track shorts and a plain top are inside, along with my colorful sneakers.

"Might as well wear the whole outfit," I mutter to myself, quickly changing out of my stained but normal clothes and into my slightly smelly running clothes. At this moment, I wish I was like the "popular" girls who always have at least two extra changes of clothes.

The bell rings right as I make my way back to math class, and I'm met with a stream of students, pushing and shoving me out of the way. I decide to wait against the wall until everyone has left the classroom. Eventually, I manage to get inside and grab my books without a single word to my teacher.

Out in the hallway, it's not as packed as usual. I make the long trek to my locker without any trouble, grabbing my beloved grammar books while shoving my loathed math books into my locker. Grammar is my favorite subject; I love learning about adjectives and adverbs, and I especially love creative writing time.

\---

"Now, today for our creative writing time, I would like you to write about the troubles and accomplishments you have gone through in life. Tell me what you feel, what you've felt. I want to get inside your mind and know what it's like to be you," my English teacher, Miss Tanya, says. She waves her hands around, trying to emphasize her words. This is one of the many reasons why I love Miss Tanya; not only does she let us call her by her first name, but she is also just really cool.

I begin writing immediately, pouring my soul into my paper. I write about my childhood, and how my dad died before I knew him; how my mom has been put in jail multiple times for substance abuse. I write about the happy times I've had with my grandfather, who only died nearly ten years ago, and about my grandmother being recently admitted to a nursing home, where she hardly even remembers my name. By the time the bell rings, I've filled two and a half pages.

The rest of the day is a bore. I get pushed in the hallways, tripped on my way to my seat in business class, and balls of paper thrown at my back in Physics.

When I finally stumble through the door to my house, I'm exhausted.

"Madeline, is that you?" my foster mother calls from her bedroom.

"Yes!" I answer, dropping my backpack by the door and walking into the kitchen. I grab an apple and am about to walk to the stairs when my foster mother pokes her head out of her bedroom.

"I need you to do something for me," she says.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Someone moved into the house next to ours -- Mrs. Burnwell's old house -- and I'd like for you to give them a basket of stuff I made."

"Kim--" I protest, but she puts her hand up, silencing me.

"You barely ever get out or spend time with kids your age. You need to become more social! Maybe a family moved in, and maybe one of them is a kid your age."

"I'm not a kid anymore," I remind her.

"Okay, you barely spend time with teens your age," she corrects herself.

"Really, I don't see the need. I don't like anyone my age. They're all too immature and--"

"No ifs, ands, or buts about," Kim states, and I know I'm not getting out of this one. "Maybe it's an old woman who you can knit with." She's reffering to my comment about the people my age being too 'immature.'

"Where's the basket?" I grumble.

"Here." She goes over to the kitchen counter, grabs the basket, and puts the handle in my hand, also taking the apple from me. "Smile, please. And don't be rude." She looks me in the eye sternly, and I just nod my head.

I trudge outside and to this new neighbor's house, hoping that nobody is home. I ring the doorbell. No one answers, so I turn around and walk down the steps, but I don't get away fast enough because the door opens.

"May I help you?" a male, British voice asks.

"Um, yes." I turn back to face him and take in his appearance immediately. He has dark brown hair that almost appears to be black, and his face looks like it hasn't been shaved in a few days. I look down at his arms, which are covered by long sleeves, yet see a few tattoos peeking out from the dark material. He can't be much older than I am. "Hi." I give him the best smile I can manage.

"Hello." His slightly deep voice is almost calming in the strangest way.

"I'm your neighbor, from that house right there." I point to the sunny-yellow house that I live in.

"That's nice. . . ." he trails off.

"Oh, sorry. This is for you." I hold up the basket filled with food and other miscellaneous items. Mandy loves giving to people on any occasion, and this is definitely one of them: welcoming a new neighbor.

"Thanks," he says, and I hand him the basket.

"Okay, well . . . welcome to the neighborhood!" I pathetically cheer.

"Yeah," he replies coolly, completely unfazed by my embarrassment.

"Bye," I tell him, waving awkwardly before hopping down the steps and out of sight.

"How did it go?" Kim asks once I come inside.

"Awkward," I answer truthfully.

"Who lives there now?" she continues, stirring what I assume to be sauce in a pot on the stove.

"Some guy," I reply, picking up my apple.

"Alright." She turns back to the soup, and I'm surprised she doesn't want to know every detail about who it is.

I march up the stairs to my bedroom, closing the door and jumping on my bed. I'm exhausted from school, but I can't help thinking about my new neighbor. He's definitely, utterly, without-a-shadow-of-a-doubt cute; there's no way I could deny that. I think about his dark, mysterious look and decide to write a poem, inspired by him.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, 'ello there, lovely people. I would just like to inform you that this is not like any other fanfic; the plot is not going to be trite, like this: boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love and live happily ever after. No, no, no. Though it may seem like that in the beginning, eventually, this story will have a few (major) plot twists thrown into it, including the ending.
> 
> And some of you may be thinking that Madeline overreacted when she started crying in the bathroom for such a minor thing, but she has had a lot go on in her life that she just can't let go, and something (aka the slurpee) triggered her sadness, and she just had to let it out, y'know? (If you're wondering, I got the slurpee idea from Glee. SHOUTOUT TO MY GLEE FANS, BABY)
> 
> Another thing: the setting of this story is in America! I suck at writing British stuff and British terms because, sadly, I'm not British, so deal with my American crap. #luvmurica4ever
> 
> And I would just like to thank those who have taken the time to read this. You are my inspiration and the reason I don't give up! You have my golden star sticker of approval. 
> 
> Lots of love and stay classy,
> 
> xxxxx Lauren


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